people like us (we don't need that much)
by distantseas
Summary: A series of Captain Swan one-shots originally posted on Tumblr, which are generally unrelated unless stated otherwise and contain everything from AU to speculation/spoiler fics.
1. no matter where we go

summary: Emma is not sure why 8:15 means so much to her, and she can't shake the feeling that something is missing. (i.e 3x11 - the year that has elapsed from Emma's perspective before Hook finds her)

a/n: I am aware that everyone and their mothers have already written speculation fics for this, but I am always late to the party and this literally came out of nowhere. Inspired by the last cs scene before the hiatus and love don't die - the fray.

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Emma Swan liked to call her ability to detect a lie a superpower though it was more of an acquired skill, honed by years in the system. Her young mind had memorized the minute details, how her foster parents sucked in a breath, foreheads creasing as they opened and closed their mouths and of course, that saccharine smile before they sent her back to the orphanage.

By the time she met Neal, she was placing the finishing touches on her façade. She knew how to pick apart a disguise, knew how to read in between the lines, everything subtle to her was amplified. He became her partner in crime; they stole together, felt young, wild and free together. For the first time, she thought she could trust someone, someone who would never leave her, alone. She was never more wrong in her life.

_Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me._

Which was why she knew better than to ignore the pang in her gut.

It started off as a generic feeling of misplacement, a strange sense of foreboding in the back of her mind, precisely at 8:15 p.m. She remembered checking the time when they arrived back home in Boston. Henry was incredibly exhausted after the road trip to Maine, and neither could really fathom why they were headed there in the first place. The next day, she woke up with a start, eyes automatically open and mind cleared of sleep. Beside her, the digital numbers glowed red. 8:15 a.m.

This 'sixth sense', as she begrudgingly called it, became more than just a gut feeling. Her life revolved around the twelve hours between each 8:15. The alarm clock was set, albeit unnecessarily; she knew she would already be awake, her feet carrying her to check up on Henry, as if to make sure he would still be there, safe in bed.

The curfew for Henry, more so for herself, was set at 8:00 since 8:15 would be a tad specific, just a little bit. She didn't know why she needed to be home by then, and she had tried to stay later one time, only to tap her fingers incessantly on the table, stealing frequent glances at the clock as the seconds ticked by. Her job was far from done, but she did not have the time to wait around for the subject in question any longer. It was 8:30, fifteen minutes past the time she was supposed to be home with Henry. Bail bonds can wait, she couldn't.

She needed help, a concrete solution to her _problem_. Maybe she could be prescribed medication, be diagnosed with something, anything with a label. The trip to the psychologist only solidified her fears – she was crazy, losing her mind. One look and she knew.

Her psychologist was supposed to be soft-spoken, a voice full of reason. And Henry's teacher, who she met during a parent-teacher conference, was supposed to be a gentle soul, kind and thoughtful, full of motherly affection. Even the local sheriff, someone she saw on a regular basis, was supposed to speak in a gruff Irish lilt, his physical presence the very definition of masculinity. Every encounter with began with a familiar warmth coursing through her veins and ended with an excruciating ache, the pain akin to an empty void, no heart in her chest. She found a temporary solace in the leather cord wrapped tightly around her wrist, skin rubbed raw to forget. She tried her best to avoid him, all of them actually.

Everything seemed so _wrong_. People were not who they were supposed to be, strong feelings for nothing and from nothing, dreams felt like memories with no faces, no names. Only the clock tower in her sleep was consistent, hands always frozen at 8:15 before she awoke, remnants of purple smoke clouded beneath her lids.

The move to New York was to forget, to lose herself in the commotion, not because of an explicable pull to the city. If anything, it only fueled her instincts, pieces clicking to place, like she was coming close, not yet on the burning trail.

8:15 became a mundane part of her life, an excuse for her intrinsic maternal nature, attributed the need to always protect Henry. His best chance was with her. And sometimes, she shuddered at the thought of abandoning him, a firm sense of dread gripping her heart, as if she _knew_, as if it were something she had done before. No, Henry was loved, had always been loved.

They were together, mother and son, safe and content. Every beginning marked every end of the day. Her 'sixth sense' still tugged in reminder, however much subdued by the passing year. Like all mornings, this one had started the same, hot cocoa with cinnamon to chase down the thoughts of yesterday, dreams of clock towers and blurred faces.

There were three raps to the door, a pause and then a vehement three more.

Standing in front of her door was a… pirate, for a lack of a better description, the first word coming to mind. He was covered in leather from head to toe, downcast eyes immediately lighting up into a brilliant shade of electric blue at the sight of her.

"Swan," He smiled, a boyish and toothy grin, "At last." His whole body relaxed with a deep exhale, breathing out in sheer relief. With every big step he took towards her, she shuffled two baby steps back, hand outstretched to stop him but not close enough to touch. He claimed to have answers to questions she had never asked, spoke the thoughts she never voiced aloud. Most of all, he was so intent on her to remember, desperately sealing the space between them yet softly pressing his lips on hers.

She shut the door in his face.

Because hewas _right_, he _found_ her. He was supposed to belong to those dreams, blurred faces clarified with a very real pair of blue, blue eyes that held more depth than the sea.

Last time she checked, it was 8:15.

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	2. devil's backbone

summary: There is more to the bad blood that runs between Hook and Blackbeard.

a/n: I jumped the Blackbeard bandwagon. Just another speculation fic entertaining the theory that Blackbeard and Hook are related and other potential spoilers. - C.

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The ship shudders as it settled into port, a heavy splash following the anchor thrown overboard, and the gangplank groans, landing unceremoniously on the dock. The wood creaks in protest, surrendering to each step. A dull clunking of steel-toed boots resonates through the still air, every stride accompanied by the slight clinking of chains against a sturdy chest.

"At last I meet the famed Captain Hook." Slowly, he lifts his head, gaze trailing up from the black leather to the familiar glint of cold, blue eyes. Droplets of morning mist linger in his stubble, hair outgrown and untamed to match the rugged smile, the essence of sin reincarnated.

"I have to say, lad, your reputation far exceeds you." He refuses to speak to him, fixated on the hauntingly majestic vessel. They say a ship reflects her captain, and she does, colours flying strong despite her decrepit state. A black poison spreads along the hull, the wood blackened to the tip of every splinter, rows of darkness upholding the masts. The sails hang limply, yellowed and tattered, evident stitch lines intersecting in a careless manner. She is magnificent, she is whole, and she is almost everything his ship used to be.

An ache grips his heart, squeezing as he is reminded of the Jolly Roger, once a spectacle now barely afloat, missing pieces stretching from the bow and stern. And yes, a ship reflects her captain, and she does, as broken as he is.

"Aye, she is the Queen Anne's Revenge, beautiful she is." He finally turns his attention to the man beside him who gazes longingly at his ship, a sense of pride passing over his features.

She is as notorious as her captain.

He opens and closes his mouth, unable to voice his thoughts, unwilling to forego the formal tone. "Blackbeard."

"Hook," Blackbeard reaches for his sword, lip quirked upwards in amusement. "So the legends are true." The tip of the blade comes in contact with his hook, pushing the sleeve of his leather coat up to reveal the leather brace.

"Tell me, boy, how many have you lost before you lost your hand?" The smile becomes a grin, all teeth and completely knowing, a benevolent gesture turned sinister. It looks all too familiar, a reflection of what he once was. Hook doesn't answer, and they both know that the answers are already hanging in the silence, drying on the thin line between them.

"Come now, don't be a _coward_." But Blackbeard knows, knows how to choose his words. A thinly veiled insult is enough to throw a man into the flames. "You need not be afraid to speak to me, son."

Hook clenches his fist by his side, knuckles turning white in a futile attempt to regain control. "I am not a coward nor am I your son." His voice wavers, the words barely escaping his gritted teeth; he has to remind himself that this was just another game, and like all, he cannot lose.

"And what of your dear brother?" At the mere mention of Liam, Hook unsheathes his own sword, the edge of his blade pressed into Blackbeard's throat. The man unfurls his lips into another feral grin, infuriatingly pleased to have hammered the nail into the coffin. Leaning into the tentative pressure, he hisses with satisfaction, "I see you are still your brother's keeper through and through."

With a simple push, Blackbeard relieves himself from the weight of the sword, rolling his neck in mock soreness. "Consider this your first lesson, Killian." He steps back, stopping at no more than an arm's length away, relishing in the way Hook twitches under the scrutiny.

"You and I are very much the same." _Pirate_.

Their blades clash almost instantly, and Blackbeard laughs with every impact, almost proud.

Hook steels himself with the image of her, glowing skin and blonde tresses billowing in the wind. She is a vision, a sight to see, her eyes a blend of land and sea. Yet he can never allow himself to hope that someone as captivating as she is would ever save him from the very venom that runs through his veins. His blood would only taint the white feathers of a Swan.

She won't come for him.

(She will.)

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	3. take me home to my heart

summary: Emma tends to Hook after his fight with Blackbeard. (It's sort of a reverse of the first aid scene of the one we had with Gremma). An unplanned continuation of devil's backbone.

a/n: Sorry for the sudden tense change, I wasn't planning on continuing with devil's backbone. I was supposed to be writing my essay and studying for my midterms but I did this instead, I'm so dead. Can you imagine Hook with a big band-aid? omg - C.

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Blackbeard towered over him, dragging the tip of his sword over his right cheek. Pressing a steel-toed boot on his chest, he was kept into place, watching the silver blade reopen the very same scar the man created in the first place.

"You are weak."

It was the last thing he heard before the heavy clunking faded into silence. He laid on the docks, the wooden planks adding to his discomfort than soothing his agony. The soft sea breeze only dusted coarse grains of salt in his wound, a warm trickle of blood trailed to the side of his face.

He wished she would come, hoped to be graced with her presence. He wanted to see her, only a glimpse was enough to take away the pain. He was almost parasitic, waiting until she succumbed, waiting until she could give him what he needed.

_Weak, weak, weak_.

"What happened to you?" _Gods_, they had heard his prayers. Hearing her concerned voice was pure bliss to his ears. Not unlike the first time, she crouched over him, eyes sweeping over him for anything other than the obvious cut on his face.

"Hello to you too, beautiful." He gave her a toothy grin, one she didn't buy. There was no trademark eye roll than usually accompanied his quips. Her fingers reached out tentatively, wanting to touch but she withdrew her hand quickly, pulling tissues out of her pocket instead. Brows furrowed in concentration, she cleaned the blood from his wound, wiping in a delicate motion.

He wanted to brush away the stray tendrils of blonde hair from her face, to tuck them behind her ear. She was so beautiful, another broken soul, but unlike him, she was never tainted by the darkness.

"There should be a first aid kit back at the station." Snapping him out of his reverie, her tone came out clipped. She gripped her wrist, tightening the leather cord as if it would hold her together, tie her into place.

"Hook?" She motioned towards the Sheriff's station, and he fell into step, still holding the dampened cluster of tissues against his cheek.

There was a comfortable silence between them, as always and as long as neither chose to pry. He never wanted to ruin whatever it was between them, a fragile line between not quite strangers and maybe friendship even, and if he dared hope, lovers. Three hundred years in Neverland surely tested his patience; he had had a calculated plan, precise methods to exact his revenge. And yet he failed, three hundred years of everything cast aside for a sliver of hope. Oh, how he thirsted for every glance, every touch, drinking her in while fighting every to satiate his carnal hunger. A year without her seemed to last an eternity, three hundred years paled in comparison.

When he found her, he found his salvation. He vowed to never lose her again, and the need to have her grew, heightening his awareness to their ever growing proximity. She needed her space after being thrust back into the role of the Savior, but he wanted to be close, as close as she allowed him to be.

He could always take her away and shelter her from her moral obligations. For all he cared, they could hide until they wanted to be found. And maybe if she'd let him, he could show her how much he wanted it to be just Emma and just Killian.

That was why he didn't deserve her. She was always preoccupied with the needs of others, ridding entire realms from the grasp of utter chaos. Here he was, pathetically pining for her like a dying man, entertaining dangerous thoughts of stealing her away like the pirate he was.

_Weak, weak, weak._

"It's nothing we can't fix." She reassured him, ignoring the words he uttered aloud like a mantra. Her back was turned away from him as she rummaged through a box. The jarring view of the jail cells glared back at him, iron bars calling out for confinement.

"I know you'd prefer rum but rubbing alcohol has the same effect." She tipped a bottle of liquid over a folded square of gauze. Inching forward, she came close enough to stand toe to toe, looking for a cue.

"If this is your excuse to touch me, I have to say I'm unimpressed." She laughed, her warm breath fanning across his face. Slowly, she lowered his hand from his face, coaxing the tight grip open to throw away a red stained ball of tissue. She took in a deep breath, hand hovering over the open wound before dabbing with the gentlest of pressures.

He winced, and she grimaced, immediately withdrawing her hand from his source of pain.

"Sorry."

"Bloody hell love, I see what you mean." He chuckled at her sheepish smile. Shuffling his grip on the desk behind him, he leaned back as she continued to clean the dried blood, occasionally flinching at the contact with flesh. He was completely transfixed at the way she tended to him, as if she cared, genuinely wanted to heal him.

His heart soared with her subtle glances, when she thought he wouldn't be looking. He was sure she could hear the deafening staccato in his chest, a wild beat loud enough to rival the rage of the stormiest seas. She was here, standing so close, treating him with utmost tenderness that his useless stump and calloused hand would never be able to reciprocate.

As soon as he tried to lean forward, she was already stepping back to appraise her work. She set the bloodied gauze aside to open another package with trembling fingers. She steadied herself though, rubbing the leather band until the skin turned red. Another sigh escaped her lips, breaking the trance that pulled her in.

She peeled the paper strips from the large brown patch, proceeding to cover his cut. He sighed, eyes fluttering closed with her ministrations, finger smoothing over the edges to ensure the bandage would stick.

"I used to do this for Henry. When he was hurt, he always cried, and I would have to kiss it better." She mused, a sad smile etched on the contours of her face. "I guess none of that was real, right?"

He knew better than to lie to her, but right now, watching her twirl the bootlace around her wrist, shoulders sagged in silent acceptance, he wanted no more than to tell her that yes, all of it was real. All she had with Henry should have been real, and he wanted to apologize for taking it all away, for dragging her back into the fire. He was a sorry fool, a selfish man deprived of her attention.

She took his silence as a form of confirmation.

"Hey, it's not your fault." She cupped his cheeks, turning his head back to face her. "I'm the Savior, remember? I can't catch a break." He made the mistake of looking directly into her eyes, their jade depths searching, piercing into his blue ones.

He was drowning with no anchor in sight, no hope of ever resurfacing. So, he leaned forward ever so slightly, capturing her lips in a tantalizing slow kiss. His hook drifted upwards, resting on her side as he pulled her closer, coaxing her to open up, to let him in.

She responded in greater fervor, fingers raking his scalp, hands clawing to grab his shoulders, doing everything to minimize the distance between them. She gasped as the coolness of his hook found her hip, shirt ridden up exposing skin. He was chasing the sensation of her, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses down the hollow of her throat to the juncture between her neck and shoulder. He was taking what he wanted, savoring every moan he drew from her lips.

"Emma…"

She froze, a flash of recognition crossed her face and she pulled back, staring at him in horror.

"Love, did I do something wrong?" He tried to reach out, touch her but she recoiled, taking baby steps away from him.

"No," She shook her head, only adding to his confusion. "No, the last time I did this something happened." He noticed her reverting to her nervous habit, fingering the leather cord again. "It's nothing."

Sighing, he took her hand, placing a gentle kiss on the raw skin of her wrist.

"What are you doing?"

"Kissing it better."

"Killian," She mimicked his movements, lips brushing over the curve of his hook. "You're not weak."

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	4. listen to me

summary: the hunger games / catching fire au (the jabberjay scene) - Emma runs off after hearing familiar cries of agony, only to realize she has fallen into a trap.

a/n: go listen to dust to dust - the civil wars. Hm, I had imagined Emma to be in District 12, Killian to be in District 4, Regina in District 1, David and Mary Margaret in District 10, but that's not really relevant to the fic. It was supposed to be a part of something bigger but I don't really have the time… yet. I hope it's to your liking, I tried my best with the angst. :) - C.

disclaimer: I own nothing, just my writing.

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A guttural moan resonated through the arena, raw and raspy, clinging onto the syllables of her name like a lifeline. She knew that voice, distinctly male and so broken, calling to her, calling for her. Her feet began to move involuntarily, slowly stepping towards the source before quickening into a sprint. The images seeped in from the dark crevices of her memory, wounds reopening to bleed red into her mind.

The dense undergrowth obscured her path, yet she still ran, uncaring for the branches that snagged her face or the tree roots she stumbled over. As his voice grew louder, she knew she was close and her pace turned frantic.

He was here, and she could save him.

The cries seemed to fade into silence with every step she took further into the forest. She stilled her movements, only having the rapid rhythm of her heart for company. She pressed her hands to her knees, trying to catch her breath. The fresh sting of tears pricked her eyes; she was so sure she heard him.

Piece by piece her memories were coming together, even the broken fragments she tried so hard to hide, a dull ache grasping straws in her chest.

She remembered, the way he fell, sinking to his knees as he stared at her, mouth open in surprise. Remembered being at his side in an instant, holding him upright, his forehead resting on her shoulder, and her body shuddered from his desperate heaves for a breath. Gently, she had lowered him down, fingers hovering over the wound in hesitation. There was so much blood, his blood, staining his black shirt to an impossible hue, even darker than the shaft of the arrow protruding from his chest.

The voice was his, Graham, every last word uttered from his lips. With his last breath, he clung onto her desperately, as if she held all the answers to the world. And in that moment, she had never felt so helpless, wanting to do something yet unable to do anything. All she could do was watch the hope leave his eyes, watching as he left her like everyone else.

"Emma!"

There was a faint sound of beating wings above her, a flash of black in her periphery. She reached over her shoulder, grabbing the hilt of closest blade in a vice grip. A small crested bird, perched atop a tree branch, tilted its head to scrutinize her. The mutt opened its beak, with a voice not matching the sinister dark plume.

"Emma!"

_Fool_.

She let the knife fly from her hand, carrying the cries of agony into silence. The jabberjay lay motionless on the greenery, its beady eyes still transfixed on her figure. He was not real, he was not here. He was another smile, another laugh tainted by the machinations of the Capitol. He was just a copy of what once was.

He was gone.

The threads keeping her walls together were already stretched until taut, the ends loosened and frayed, threatening to break apart at the seams. What began as a white picket fence, a blissful innocence, became an impenetrable fortress. Love and hurt were intersecting lines, deep fissures weakening her stone confines with passing time.

At the sound of rustling, her hand gripped the dagger on her side instinctively. Twigs were snapped under hurried footsteps, fronds parted haphazardly in the thick foliage, whatever was coming her way made no efforts to be discreet.

Regina came crashing into the clearing, the clumsy entrance uncharacteristic from her usual air of elegance. Neither was the momentary flicker of concern before she schooled her features. "Are you alright, Miss Swan?"

She wanted to laugh, laugh at how ridiculous this all seemed, how Regina seemed to care despite her normally aloof personality. "I'm fine." She managed to utter out, swallowing the bubble of derisive laughter threatening to rise from her throat.

"Good, Henry will never forgive—" A piercing shriek cut her off, breaking through the still air. They turned to each other in recognition, but Regina was the first to act, bolting in pursuit of the voice. She ran after her, following the trail of trodden vegetation.

_Not real_, she reminded herself with every step.

_Not real_, she repeated, biting back the tears with every scream.

They sounded exactly like him and completely unlike him. The intonation, the pitch, the voice was all precisely accurate, a perfect copy, but Henry never screamed like_that_, never sounded so distressed, so hopeless. From her time spent with Henry, she knew the kid had a firm sense of belief, and it was his unwavering hope that allowed them both to walk out of the 74th Hunger Games as victors. A feature, she came to notice, that his mother, Regina lacked.

"They're not real, Regina." She caught Regina by the arm, nails digging into her flesh to force the brunette to turn away from the screaming. "Not real." She pointed skyward to the black bird above, circling like hands on a clock.

Tick tock.

12 o'clock, lightning struck the tree. 1 o' clock, blood rain. 2 o'clock, the poisonous fog. 3 o'clock, monkey muttations. 4 o'clock…

Jabberjays.

Regina let out a long exhale, the colour returned to her blanched face, her pupils constricting to chase the wild look from her eyes. "We need to go back."

Tick tock.

They were running again, into the trees where the overhanging branches drew red lines across their cheeks. Regina led the way, swiveling her head back towards the source of the cries from time to time. A chorus of wing beats reverberated above, and a black shadow blanketed the canopy.

There was almost no light as they reached the tree line, the figures of David, Mary Margaret and Killian becoming distinct. Their mouths were moving but she couldn't discern their voices, overwhelmed by the sickening pleas for help, which made her stomach churn as she continued to ignore them. They were so close now, feet carrying them in a desperate pace before their bodies were blasted backwards from the sudden impact of a hard, transparent wall.

Her eyes watered from the sting, brain momentarily hazy from the collision. The smell of smoke filled her lungs, debris digging uncomfortably into her back, and as she stood up, the darkness began its descent. She could see rather than hear them, all the possible scenarios that elicited torturous pain. Everyone was calling her name, begging for her to come. She couldn't help all of them, any of them, not even one.

She slashed wildly with her dagger as the jabberjays swooped down upon her. Their leathery wings brushed against the base of her neck, their claws scraped a path up her arms, and their beaks lingered on the shell of her ears, open wide to free an excruciating echo.

There were too many birds and not enough knives on her belt. When one fell, another took its place.

_Emma. Emma. Emma._

She wasn't even aware that her own voice joined their orchestrated song of horror.

_Help me_.

She tried to claw her way through the invisible barrier, nails raking feverishly to create a crack in the wall. The force field only gleamed with mock triumph. She was trapped, a caged animal on display, locked in her own prison.

She stopped fighting, sinking to her knees in defeat. Killian mirrored her movements on the other side, his forehead, and then his hand was pressed against the glass texture. Her fingers came to meet his; the smooth surface between them was a cold reminder of the warmth she craved. She trailed her eyes up from their hands, where the downturn of his lips seemed to carry throughout the contours of his face.

As she came to meet his eyes, imploring and sad, the surrounding noise faded into a muffled silence. His blue depths were magnetic, the pull of the tide emanating from his gaze, drawing her way from the jabberjays, from the screaming, from herself. She was lost at sea, waves rippling over her weary body, too tired to keep her head above the water.

Drowning in him…

"Swan," A voice like velvet drifted into her ears, a comfortable cocoon enveloping her trembling frame. "The hour is up, love."

"It's over," Her arms were gently pried from her knees, her body unraveling from the fetal position.

"_Emma_…"

She choked out a sob.

Her name never sounded so warm.

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	5. mischief managed

emmaswahns Asked: 72 :)

**72. Mischief Managed**

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She should have known better.

The day started off blissfully tranquil, the streets of Storybrooke were still lulled to sleep by the crescent moon, not yet ready to face the crack of dawn. She swapped shifts with David, who was currently on paternal leave, and that left her working almost all the time. Not that she minded, because Storybrooke had as many delinquents as the forest had wolves.

She was reading the paper, swirling a finger over the rim of her hot chocolate when Hook burst into Granny's diner, immediately sidling up next to her. He was all smiles, and when she looked at him, his smile only grew.

"Love."

"Hm?" She dipped her finger into the cinnamon coated whipped cream, humming appreciatively at the taste. Perfect parts sugar and just the right texture, not too rich or overwhelming – Granny knew her food.

His eyes became hooded, darkening before he shook his head and the glint of utter glee returned. His hand came to brush against hers for silent permission. She allowed his fingers to intertwine with hers loosely. "Have a nice day." He squeezed them tightly, another infectious smile gracing his lips.

She was beyond confused when he left, even the jingle of his exit unable to wake her from her daze. To say she was touched by the gesture was an understatement. Usually, he would come by smirking, an innuendo laden pirate with no concept of personal space, shamelessly eyeing her figure and leering in her ears only. Today, he had been unexpectedly quiet, a demure gentleman who gazed upon her with soft adoration.

It was different, it was strange.

Something was up.

And she was right.

By nine o'clock in the evening, David had forced her out of the station, insisting on making up for his time away ("I don't want to be on diaper duty"). She arrived home, an empty house greeting her sight. No Henry, no Hook, just Emma and a peaceful silence. Two hours later, she was already tucked into her bed, phantom touches from the morning lacing her dreams.

However, an incessant knocking woke her from her sleep. She made her way to the door, mind still fogged, barely registering the hushed voices on the other side. After fumbling with the lock, she turned the knob to find three very different expressions on three very different faces.

"I received complaints that these two were being public nuisances." Her father shoved Hook through the door while he collected Robin by the collar, dragging him off to Regina's place. "I need to take this one home."

She closed the door after David left, locking clicking back into place. "So…"

"So…" He had the audacity to mimic her, his trademark smirk plastered on his face.

"You were drinking with Robin." She crinkled her nose, smelling the alcohol, the rum radiating off him.

"I was drinking with Robin." He could hardly stand, ambling until he was close enough to nuzzle into her neck.

"And?"

"No harm done."He rested his head on her shoulder, each breath disturbing her golden wisps of hair.

"Yes, because that explains why David had to bring you here." She crossed her arms, taking a few steps back, far enough to retain an arm's length between them.

If not for his inebriated state, she would have succumbed to his whine, a small whimper from the loss of contact. She held out her hand, stopping him from swaying closer. He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a dramatic sigh.

"We may or may not have been kicked out of the local tavern," She tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for him to continue, "among other establishments."

Hiccuping, he barely managed to slur, "We may or may not have also planned to break into the crocodile's shop."

"May or may not have?" She tilted her head to scrutinize him, evidently unimpressed.

He still had the nerve to look proud, full blown grin lighting up his features.

"Most certainly."

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	6. go on (make me)

carryonmyleghairson Asked: Prompt! Let's assume that CS were already together prior to the curse hitting storybrooke and sending Emma and Henry away. After Hook and Emma's reunion, they sleep together but get caught by Walsh and this whole thing breaks out and Hook is being as sassy as ever.

Thank you! I took a different turn to your prompt (they don't sleep together… yet), but I hope you don't mind because I also love sassy Hook!

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She's still reeling from the sudden influx of memories, each scene rounded out with a cloud of purple smoke. She sees too much and all at once, faces and names coming together in a haze.

"Did you miss me?"

She tries to anchor herself to the smile adorning his face, small but speaking volumes to his relief. With one staggering step forward, she wraps her arms slowly around him, finally having something to hold onto. He embraces with tentative gentleness at first and then a desperate tightness.

He's right here and so, very, very real.

"It's alright." She feels the low vibration in his chest and the long, lazy strokes through her hair cease as he pulls back to meet her eyes. "We're alright."

He hovers up her lips, waiting, waiting like he has always has been. She closes the breadth of distance for a simple press of her lips, but he wanted more than just that, snaking his prosthetic hand under her jacket to ground her, pulling her flush against him. The moment his tongue sweeps over her lower lip, she relents, letting him in, letting him take what was already his, all of her.

It takes her another minute to regain her senses. They're giving a passionate display in front of the precinct and probably just seconds away from being carted off for public indecency.

"Not here." She pushes him off, which does nothing to hinder him. He continues to place hot, open mouthed kisses along her throat, nipping at the juncture her neck and shoulder. She tugs him away from the precinct, biting her lower lip hard to keep from moaning.

When they reach her building, she all but punches the code into the keypad. He pushes her against the wall as soon as they walk in, hands roaming along the curvature of her body, eager fingers searching for every inch of exposed skin.

"Emma?" She stills upon seeing Walsh standing just outside her door, unexpectedly earlier than what Henry had originally set up. She tries to untangle her leg, hitched up on Hook's waist, but he keeps her in place.

"Hook…"

"Swan…" He whines, rutting his hips against hers to show his evident arousal.

"Hook!"

"Look, I hate to interrupt—" Walsh tucks his hands awkwardly into his pockets, gaze fixed on the floor.

Running a hand through his hair, Hook mutters under his breath. "What hindrance to our progress, love. We were so close to calling each other by a first name basis."

"We need to talk, Emma."

She opens and closes her mouth to speak, about to voice the incoherent thoughts in her head until Hook cuts in. "I am a perfectly capable messenger."

"I need to talk with Emma, alone."

"She's quite preoccupied at the moment."

"I can see that, Mister…"

"That's Captain—" She ducks out from under his arms, reaching to clamp a hand over his mouth. His tongue darts out to lick her palm, the mischievous glint in his eyes twinkling when she turned back to give him a glare.

She sighs. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" Walsh stares at her incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're only sorry for running away from these past eight months because I proposed?"

She has difficulty focusing, barely registering the spite radiating from Walsh as Hook grazes his teeth along her palm. "It's complicated. I… I…" She flinches, withdrawing her hand when his teeth sink down on her skin.

His lips graze the shell of her ear, voice coming out in a breathy whisper. "Clearly Regina's blessing did not extend to your taste in men."

"Shut up, Hook." She growls, only fueling his mirth.

"Go on," He chuckles. "Make me."

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	7. go to the ends of the earth (for you)

summary: My take of the missing scene in 3x12, where Hook obviously stays the night… in a totally innocent way ;)

a/n: I just had feels. I was listening to make you feel my love - adele and my muse just kick started this thing.

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She pushes him over the edge.

Walsh, no, the monkey screeches, arms flailing to reach her, hands grasping the thin air as he falls, falls onto the concrete and disappears. He disintegrates into a cloud of white smoke. Another one bites the dust. There are only eight months of memories that only she will remember. Eight months of trust culminating to a betrayal, eight months laced with lies and deceit, and eight months she came to love, now verified as too good to be true.

She is still hunched over the ledge, staring at the sidewalk when Hook bursts through the door, stricken with panic. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, darkened with unmistakable concern. His breathing is ragged, having rushed up a flight of stairs, having completely ignored her order to wait.

"Swan, what in the blazes was that?"

"A reminder that I was never safe. What I wanted, what I thought I could have was not in the cards for the Savior."

_I came back to save you_.

He's more than a ghost, more than a simple apparition that started to haunt her dreams. He's here in the flesh, clad in leather that blends with darkness, but he is everything real in a counterfeit reality. He seems to be the only constant in her unrelenting world of chaos and destruction, the only one who chooses to stay despite her cursed fate.

"We leave in the morning."

She doesn't have to look back to know that he will follow. The echo of her heels reverberates down the stairs, with the sound of his boots filling the other half of the silence. She holds the door open for him, clicking the lock closed, leaning forward with a sigh.

He returns to his seat at the table, swirling the glass, taking a long and languid sips of the liquor. She sits in the chair directly opposite of him, retaining the same position they were in prior to the visit from Walsh. She sweeps her gaze over the loft, one more look at the fake domesticity, no longer feeling at home. She pours herself another glass, throwing her head back to down the alcohol in one shot.

"Tired, Hook?"

"Is that an invitation?" He raises an eyebrow, and she finds herself smiling at the familiar gesture.

"I'm offering you a place to sleep." She rolls her eyes as he runs his tongue over his teeth obscenely.

She feels the weight of his stare as she fluffs the cushions on the leather couch. Grabbing an extra blanket from the closet, she drapes it over the seats where she and Henry sat yesterday, playing video games.

"Boots off, I don't want you to ruin my furniture."

"Quite demanding, aren't you?" He clucks his tongue, running a hand over the bonded leather in curiosity. He reaches down to take off his boots before sinking down on the soft luxury of his makeshift bed, probably the first of his adventure in New York.

"Sleep." She stands over him, hands on her hips. He grumbles incoherently, tucking himself under the blanket to her content. She takes one last glimpse of him before flipping the light switch. He's lying flat on his stomach, hair sticking up past the arm rest, with cushions pressed tightly against his chest.

In her room, she changes into a set of pajamas, the same set she had on when he found them. She tries to settle in bed, tossing and turning to find a comfortable position. Instead, her thoughts wander to the man sleeping on her couch, in the room just beyond her walls. Hook.

_I came back to save you_.

She throws aside her covers, grabbing a pillow and the thin, top layer off her bed. In quiet footsteps, she sits down on the adjacent red love seat. His head perks up instantly as she shuffles around, the ruffling of sheets and cushions, the creaking of the upholstery rousing him. She surrounds herself with all the softness and warmth she can find, wrapped up in a cozy cocoon.

"What are you doing, Swan?"

"Trying to sleep."

He turns to face her, a small but reassuring smile gracing his lips. "Sweet dreams."

"Thank you." She replies in a hushed whisper, and she is sure he can only see her mouth moving. If he hears it, he pretends not to notice, letting the words fade into silence.

_Did you miss me?_

Yes, she did.

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	8. i know

a/n: old post but feelings from 3x15 ep after Neal's death

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She has never seen so many people gathered here at Granny's diner, so full yet so quiet. The low murmur of voices barely hides the bustle of the kitchen, and all she seems to hear are the mindless condolences, apologies from people who have nothing better to say. They all glance at her the same way, like she's a shard of shattered glass. They expect her to break but she is already broken, and he has been lost since the day he left. She will always love Neal but this goodbye was forever.

Tucked safely in her parents' arms, she heaves a long sigh, the ghosts of Tallahassee slipping into the crevices of her memories. She misses the loft back in New York, where she felt at home, even for a split second, a year of normalcy and everything she wanted for Henry. No, after today, after all this, she might never get it back.

David cradles her head, his fingers gently pressing into her scalp, and Mary Margaret rubs a hand along her back, up and down in a soothing motion. Mom. Dad. Her parents. She is calmed by their gestures and appreciative of their silence. She doesn't want to talk, and she has spent far too many years alone to want that either.

Slowly blinking her eyes open, she sees him slouched over by the counter, swirling a mug of ale disinterestedly. She pulls away from her parents, admittedly reluctant to be separated from their embrace, but he shouldn't have to face everything alone, not anymore.

"Hook," She approaches him carefully, noticing the way he stiffens. "Killian." Reaching over, she helps him set the mug back onto the table.

"Swan, what are you doing?" He lets out a shaky breath, bringing the glass up for a sip but she pushes it down once more.

She sucks in a breath, the words coming out in a hoarse whisper. "I'm sorry."

"I know, love." He runs his thumb under her eyes, brushing against the tearstained skin reverently. It never ceases to amaze her, how he seems to understand. He never looks at her with pity, never sympathy, his blue eyes remain a crystal clear reflection of her own.

She wraps her arms around his neck, his head resting on her shoulder. The tip of his nose barely touches her skin, and his lips come close, his exhales lengthening with every hot expel of air.

Her hand comes up to toy with the short hairs on the base of his neck, alternating between a stroke and a caress before repeating, "I know."

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